All Your Kisses I Swallowed
by messy heart
Summary: "You can kiss me if you want," she whispers, "I won't tell Carly."


**Title: **All Your Kisses I Swallowed

**Rating: **M

**Chapter Warnings*:** Minor (characters are 15yo in this chapter), HJ

*If you are offended by these, then it would be wise to not read

...

_I._

It begins on a warm evening on the fourth of July. Carly is confined to her bed with a case of the sniffles and Spencer has gone full speed ahead into odd parental protectiveness. Freddie has spent an ungodly amount of time whining about her not being able to join them on the rooftop to watch the fireworks. But he gives up when they're ushered out by the big brother with firm instructions not to bother their friend until she's feeling better.

They sit side by side, waiting for fireworks to light up the sky. It's still uncertain whose fingers touched whose first, but soon looks are exchanged and the words leave her lips unthinking.

"You can kiss me, if you want," she whispers, "I won't tell Carly."

He makes her promise again, just to make sure, before cupping her face and drawing her to him. Their lips touch and the hesitance makes it awkward. She tries to remedy it by pushing him playfully and it works, earning a chuckle from him. His hand moves from her cheek to the back of her neck and finds her own arm wrapping around his waist, fingers light on his back.

The truth is, she doesn't know how to be delicate, how to even pretend to be. But his touch is gentle and his lips are persistent and she feels like she could break in his hands and do so happily. Her tongue shyly swipes his lower lip and she watches as his eyes go wide with pleasant surprise. His lips part then, allowing her entrance and her ears are given a taste of his first moan as her tongue presses against his.

She's never felt arousal before this. Need and want are so similar and familiar and so much a part of her that she knows that this feeling (that is lower than the bottomless pit of her stomach) is different. So strangely different, deliciously different, painfully different. Her free hand grips the front of his shirt and instead of pushing him down on his back, she pulls him on top of her. She can't explain it. She wants to feel small and fragile and she wants _him_ to make her feel that way. It scares her so much but his kisses are so (_too_) sweet and they make her forget.

His hands make her forget, too. His fingertips are warm and soft as they trail down her neck, linger along the top of her shirt. She makes the mistake of looking at him and immediately sees the question in his eyes. (Where are those lines, those delicate lines that they've drawn?) She grasps for logic, for common sense, but all she finds is that unquenchable need inside of her and so when those same fingers grip the edge of her shirt, all she does is nod. Once her shirt is gone, she feels more naked than she should but he looks at her with such an intensity and his hands are careful, gentle as they wrap around her waist and push their way upwards, over her ribs, over her small breasts as they linger (linger _linger_) all over her skin so so (_so_) warm that she can't breathe.

She feels precious. As she slips her hands underneath his loose shirt, she wonders if this is how her best friend feels when he turns those eyes on her. They're hungry and they make her feel so (_too_) much. His flesh is hot against her clammy palms and she feels him shudder when her thumbs caress his pebbled nipples. This is a different kind of vulnerability that has her intoxicated. She revels in it and she pulls his shirt from his body.

(This is different different _different_. And she will die die _die_.)

They're lying down side by side now and he takes in her swollen lips and her chest straining with each labored breath. Her skin is flushed and he feels his cheeks heat up at the thought of where his hands had been and where they want to be. They both know that she is and always will be the more adventurous of the two. Her small hands are at the edge of his jeans and before he can think twice about what is about to happen, she has them pushed down his legs. It's at the tip of his tongue to tell her to stop, at the tip of his fingers to push her away. He can't, though. But he leans toward her and captures her lips with his own.

He hears her soft moan and it's embarrassing but he goes from half-hard to fully erect at the thought of her hands touching him down _there_.

This is so wrong (_right_) but her eyes are pleading and he knows he's pleading, too, and his hands make the involuntary journey to the waist of her shorts, unbuttoning and unzipping. He doesn't know what he's doing. (Just that it's wrongwrong_right_wrong.) Just that he needs his hands on her, needs to feel her, needs to know that she's feeling what he's feeling. His forefinger traces the edge of her underwear and suddenly her hands are gripping his wrists. Not painfully, he is quick to note, but nervously.

He doesn't know who this girl is, he realizes. (Who is this girl who is all soft and trembling against him?) But somewhere in the back of his head he recognizes that whoever she is, she might be someone made for someone like him. But all thoughts are brushed away when he feels her hold on him loosen and her eyes search his and he tries his best to make her see that he wants this, wants her, wants now (_forever?_).

She rolls onto her back and he doesn't quite know what to do, if they're in the middle or in the end. But she turns to face him and her smile is the so (_too_) soft and small and her hand is on his again, but now, it's pulling him closer. He moves above her, knees between her thighs. He tells her she's beautiful because she (_always_) is before he leans down to kiss her again. Her lips are grace and poetry and the need for her, for all of her is burning in his chest and pouring low in his belly. His hips push against hers and they both groan at the contact and soon he's rocking against her and her moans fill his ears as they drown out the rest of the world.

_More_.

It's the word that leaves her lips and he honestly doesn't know how to give it to her, what exactly is she asking for. This entire thing (himher_this_) is a mystery and he's just trying to keep up with what his body wants and what her eyes are asking of him. His hands find her waist once more and this time, he moves them lower, taking shorts and underwear with them. By the time they're sitting in a pile beside them, he sees that her eyes are screwed shut and her breathing is shallow.

She's (_perfect_) beautiful and his hands are shaking when he touches her _there_ and she's wet and hot and he bites down a little on her shoulder because it takes everything in him not to take advantage of what she's giving him. But there are foreign words leaving her lips (_pleaseFreddie... pleaseFreddieplease_) and then her hands are on his, guiding him, showing him how she wants (_needs_) to be touched. This is how he knows her. Wild and untamed and frantic and unrestrained (and perfectperfect_perfect_). He tries his best to follow her fingers, the pad of his thumb rubbing that little bundle of nerves that makes her breath catch in her throat.

(And he's nevernevernever_ever_ touched someone like this before. And he feels like he could die die _die_.)

She's always been a prisoner of instinct. That's all she knows. She does what her body tells her to do because that's the only way she knows how to (_be_) function. So when he touches her _there_, her thighs part, her legs bend at the knee, her feet plant firmly on the ground and her hips tilt and thrust against his fast-learning fingers. She's reaching for something she can't name and she's half-scared, half-impatient. Her own hands slide up his arms to his shoulder then travel down his chest and then his abdomen. The evidence of his arousal is peaking through the edge of his boxers and without thought she pushes the underwear down and exposes him completely to the warm summer air.

His fingers stop then but he comes alive in her hand. She looks up at him, studies his face, the way his eyes are squeezed shut as she touches this part of him that's so hard, so unlike the rest of him but has somehow (_forever_) redefined him. Her grip tightens and the gasp he expels is all warm breath against her collarbone. She wants more of this, more of _this_, more of this feeling both powerful and powerless. Her hand starts stroking him. Tentatively first. Shyly, even. She doesn't know what she's doing and all she has to go by are the sounds that he makes, the groans and moans that grow louder and louder until he's kissing her again with more passion than she's ever felt (or dreamed).

He's inside her again, on her again, pushing and rubbing, fingers both rough and soft. (_Ohgodohgodohgod_.) Her thumb swipes against the tip of his arousal and his thumb presses against her again. His finger slips through her tight (tight _tight_) opening and she gasps at the intrusion of the next finger. In and out. Up and down. Motions and emotions and falling and flying...

She matches him pull for push and the tempo picks up until they're both straining against each other. She's so close. _So_ close. All she has to do is let go, she knows. Jump off so that she can soar. With her heart beating hard and fast against her chest, she jumps and suddenly she comes apart, her orgasm hitting her hard as it spread throughout her body. His forehead falls against her shoulder and it takes her a minute to register his teeth biting into the flesh of her shoulder. She cries out in belated pain the same time he pumps rapidly into her grip of her hand. He gives a low shout as he comes, hot and angry spurts falling on her tummy.

He falls against her and she wraps her arms around him in this rare moment of peace.

The first of the fireworks shoot up in the air.

...

**Author's Note:**

The text is generally raw and unedited. So apologies :/ I only wrote this tonight because I was feeling blocked and needed to get a flow of words going. **This isn't finished but I don't know when I'll be able to get around to updating this one.** Might be a fic I'll return to when I get blocked again (which is more often than I'd like to admit) :] But we'll see.

Title is from the song Don't Take My Sunshine Away by Sparklehorse. The entire fic was written to the Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain album. Mark Linkous, you are deeply missed.


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